Middle Child Syndrome Poem by Cheryl L. DaytecYañgot

I was always trapped in the center
like the rusty fulcrum of the see-saw,
never way up, never way down
'The rule is not to argue against them
who from you, deserve respect.
Age is the edge they have over you.
Be considerate; yield to the younger
ones -infants do not know any better.'
The one in the wrong. I was all times.

Mama, I cannot describe my sentiment
when you did not order my brother to
respect the twenty one months I lived
earlier than he did. Remember? I locked
myself in a room and refused to eat, a
good excuse not to do the pile of dishes.
I resented you for not telling my sister-
your daughter for close to a decade
longer than I am- to grant me an ample
berth of patience for my mistakes. I was
just the bold one, the quarrelsome one,
the one who overlooked the age gap.

You thought I was beyond intimidation.
You thought I did not need kid gloves.
I wanted room for righteous indignation;
you gave me one in another building-
the room for strength of character.
I had to bring home medals. I had to fail.
I had to get you to notice I could be on
top, or at the bottom, not in the center which
eyes not so thorough could overlook.
I wanted out, out of the middle. Who would
not? It is never the most cozy space. You
get squeezed from both sides till you ossify
like stone and become irrelevant. Some
get tough, but that is the miracle.

Mama, you made me forget whether I
was the older or the younger. It never
mattered to you. You made me forget
my age. To this day, I do not know.